"Oh, Geoff, Geoff! What am I? What have I become for your sake?" She went out again into Langthorne Place and walked away. Only about five minutes had passed since she trod that pavement before, yet now...? Her pulses throbbed wildly, but she was assailed by no regret, no trace of self-reproach. She was appalled by, yet exalted in, her desperate deed. She was triumphant. She had conquered! * * * * * Jack, hastily returning, almost collided with Pallister, who issued from the side-street. "So we've lost your unique 'Belle Dame,' worse luck to us! And a precious couple we must look out here, with no hats, and smeared painting-blouses and...." But the remaining words died away at the sight of Jack's expression of undisguised alarm. "Pallister! You surely haven't left Geoff alone! How infamous! Oh, how could you?" Without waiting for any answer he darted across the road and ran with all speed for the studio. "It doesn't matter," declared Pallister, somewhat subdued, hurrying after him. "He's all right. What's the trouble?" "Oh, don't speak to me! How could you leave him?" was the sole response. "Well, you seem to forget you did it yourself, if it's such a crime," Pallister replied tartly. "More blame to me! But I left him in your charge; you left him alone--surely that makes all the difference. Good gracious, though--whatever possessed me? You're as irresponsible as a child, and I knew it--I knew it!" He turned into the garden, and in a minute was bounding upstairs, closely followed by the indignant Pallister. * * * * * A quarter of an hour later, Evarne, pale yet supremely beautiful in her blush-rose gown, in her turn mounted the stairs. As she came in sight of the front door of the flat she saw that it stood wide open. From it was wafted faintly a piteous sound of sobbing and wailing. "I suppose some will mourn Morris. I did not remember that," she reflected, as she entered and closed the front door behind her. Then, making her way across the hall to the studio, she went in, inquiring in splendidly feigned surprise and alarm, "What is the matter? What has happened?" Poor Pallister was lying prostrate on the floor near the window, his hands, flung over his head, convulsively grasping great masses of fur that he had torn from the bearskin rug by which he lay. His whole body was writhing beneath choking, rending sobs. From him, Evarne slowly turned her gaze on Jack, who was seated near the couch. He, too, was shaking violently from head to foot; but as regards fixity of expression, hue and voluntary action, he might have been a figure of despair cut from marble. A sudden pain darted through Evarne's brow. Unnerved by the display of such unexpected and unrestrained emotion, she was forced to lean against the side of the doorway for support, while her white face grew paler still. "What--oh, I--what?"